Susan Mallery - Christmas In Whitehorn

“I suppose.” She studied him, looking for healing scars or hints that he’d been hurt. There weren’t any—nothing was visible and he didn’t walk with a limp. She’d seen him out jogging so he must be doing better. She thought about asking where he’d been wounded, but the question felt too intimate. “I don’t think of the average woman as being a violent person.”

“She isn’t. But there are always exceptions.”

“Do you miss the work?”

He shifted uncomfortably, as if he didn’t want to answer the question. “Some.”

“Do you miss the city?”

“It sure ain’t Whitehorn.”

She laughed. “You have that right. I remember growing up in Chicago. We were always going into the city on weekends to different restaurants and plays. Or to the museums.”

“There’s a great western museum not too far from here.”

“Gee, thanks. Next you’ll be telling me that the Hip Hop Café serves international cuisine.”

“They do offer an Oriental chicken salad on the menu.”

She took another sip of wine. “I actually knew that.”

He picked up his glass from the coffee table. “Okay, so Whitehorn doesn’t exactly have the same amenities. I’ll admit I do miss New York. The ethnic foods were great, as was the idea that I could get anything I wanted at any time of the day or night. Detective work isn’t nine-to-five, so we appreciated the late hours the restaurants were open.” He drank from his glass. “I was never much of a museum guy, but I did enjoy theater.” He frowned slightly. “I don’t think I ever saw the end of a play. I nearly always got called to a crime scene.”

She leaned her head against the sofa back. “I can’t begin to relate to your experiences.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. Sometimes they make it hard to sleep at night.”

She waited, but he didn’t say more. Did he have trouble sleeping? Did he pace long into the night? Lamplight highlighted the strength of his jaw. He had a well-shaped mouth, she thought dreamily. She would bet ten bucks that Detective Mark Kincaid was one fine kisser. Not that she was going to find out, but a girl could dream. She smiled at the thought of telling him kissing might make sleeping easier…or not.

“You’re not married,” she said before she could stop herself.

His eyebrows rose slightly. “No. Never have been.”

“Me, either.”

“No surprise there. You’re barely old enough to be legal.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“A baby.”

She straightened. “You’re hardly in your dotage.”

“It’s not the miles, it’s the wear and tear.”

He smiled as he spoke. A teasing curve of lips that made her heart stutter against her ribs and her hands suddenly go damp. She had to be extra careful when she put down her glass so that it didn’t slip.

“You should smile more,” she said.

His good humor faded. “I don’t find life especially funny.”

“Maybe not, but there are still pleasant surprises. Tonight, for example. I was worried and nervous about you coming over to dinner, but it’s turned out fine. We’ve chatted more easily than I would have thought.”

“I’ll give you that,” he said. “I didn’t want to come. The way you badger me about what I eat, I was sure you were going to put tofu in something.”

“You didn’t even taste it.”

His eyes widened. “Darcy.”

He growled her name more than said it. Shivers trickled down her spine. She found herself wanting to lean toward him, press against him to see what would happen. Dangerous thoughts, she told herself. She must make sure to keep them to herself.

“It was in the mashed potatoes,” she whispered. “I would never put tofu in the stuffing.”

He laughed. She’d never heard him laugh before—not that they’d spent all that much time together. Most of their conversations had been abbreviated exchanges with her arguing about his breakfast choice.

“I’ll bet you don’t even have tofu in the house,” he said, then finished his wine.

“You’re right, but I will admit to the pleasure of watching a grown man tremble at the thought.” She rose and stretched. “There’s probably one more glass of wine in the bottle,” she said. “As you’re not driving, why don’t you finish it?”

He nodded his agreement and she walked into the dining room. The wine bottle stood on the table. She grabbed it. As she approached the sofa, she fought against the urge to slide down next to him. What would the detective say if she suddenly plopped herself down close, maybe even on his lap. She giggled as she pictured him leaping up in horror. The wine would spill on her sofa and she would be humiliated. It was probably best if she kept her feelings to herself.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Just my own twisted sense of humor.”

He held out his glass. She bent toward him to pour, but instead of focusing on what she was doing, she found herself staring into his green eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever known a man with green eyes before. They were actually beautiful—well shaped and fringed with long, dark lashes.

“Darcy?”

She heard him speak her name, but she couldn’t respond. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest. There was a pressure, as well, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. She felt unbearably warm, yet her legs were trembling. If not from cold, then from what?

Mark took the wine bottle from her. She glanced down and saw she hadn’t poured any of the pale liquid. He set his glass on the table, next to the bottle, all the while keeping his gaze firmly locked with hers.

“We can’t do this,” he said.

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Do what?”

He swore. She realized she was still bent over him. Like an idiot, she thought, starting to straighten. But then his hand was on her arm, tugging her closer. She didn’t know which way to move. Her center of balance shifted and suddenly she was falling.

Before she could stop herself, she landed on his lap—exactly where she’d imagined herself not thirty seconds before. His arms came around her, drawing her closer.

“You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about it,” he said quietly, right before his mouth settled over hers.

For several seconds Darcy couldn’t respond. She was afraid she was imagining all this. That the wine had gone to her head—so much so that on another plane of reality, she and Mark were actually having a rational conversation while her imagination created this romantic scenario.

Yet he felt very real as he pulled her against him. She wasn’t sure her fantasizing could have created such an amazing combination of heat and desire.

As she’d thought, Mark Kincaid kissed like a dream. Soft yet firm, warm and tempting. He didn’t take, didn’t hold back, didn’t give her time to think, which was all exactly how she wanted it. His lips brushed against hers in a sensual greeting that made her toes curl. His scent, the feel of his body against hers, the way his arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him were all delightfully unfamiliar, but oh, so welcome.

He kept the kiss light, yet despite the delicate pressure, she found herself overwhelmed by need. Heat poured through her with an intensity she’d never experienced. She knew however unexpected the turn of events, they were very real.

Every cell in her body cried out for her to have her way with this man. She tried to tell herself that she had to be careful not to scare him off, that she needed to be the tiniest bit sensible and that it had been at least five years since she’d been with a man and she’d probably forgotten how to do it. None of that mattered. Not when his mouth moved over hers, back and forth, slowly, so slowly.